Silent Curse
by Sra. Neko
Summary: Mike and Micky meditate silently about the purchase of a certain bad luck talisman, and its consequences.


**_Silent Curse_**

a _The Monkees_ (TV Series) one-shot fanfiction

 ** _[Disclaimer]_** _The Monkees_ belong to NBC, Screen Gems, Columbia and enterprises associated (TV series, blue-ray discs and media) Warner, Rhino (discography), and to those wonderful musicians.

 ** _[Sinopse]_** Mike and Micky meditate silently about the purchase of a certain bad luck talisman, and its consequences.

 ** _[Initial Notes]_** Dramatic headcanon for a missing scene, from the episode _The Monkees' Paw,_ (S02 E 18).

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Someone had cast a curse on Micky.

It was ridiculous, it was absurd, it was impossible. Also, it was the exact kind of dead end where they'd fall every day, even before breakfast.

Because it wasn't rare that the boys greeted a new day while staring at empty cupboards; and they had to go out, as early as the sun, in the pursuit of employment and nourishment.

And because Michael had distracted himself with the stupid trick of a magician who didn't believe his own powers, instead of finding a gig, he called Micky's already straying and faulty attention to a silent disaster.

Literally.

Of course, Micky would be the one and only person in the world, who could buy a bad luck talisman, a cursed amulet, to help someone.

Curious, impulsive, unconsequent, Micky, the madcap.

Sweet, selfless, generous, Micky, the empath.

 _"No voice, no job and no rent",_ Davy said, the unexpectedly wise words which proved that the youngest in the family wasn't a love sick fool, starry-eyed with legions of admirers.

And now,a real curse had fallen over his precious friend. A tragedy that could erase from existance, forever, the angelical voice that changed so many lifes. Including his own.

And the silence of the night kept blanketing the struggling musician, while he blamed himself for being unable to pay attention to the real threats around the family that adopted him.

For his own distraction and inability, one of the most precious people in his life had to pay a heavy price, beyond all measure or imagination.

It was all his fault. He was the clumsy apprentice of guitarist, the stupid, unnecessary hillbilly, the dead weight in the band, the stone on their path towards success. Why wasn't him the one affected by the spell? Why the monkey's paw didn't want to take his gruff voice away? No one would ever miss his rude voice, or his raggedy accent, or the way he stuttered and stumbled on the words, or...

Michael's silent self-whipping was interrupted by a weight throwing itself on his chest, taking his breath away, followed closely by a cloud of tangled curls, another very thin young body, a flash of movement in stripped pajamas, and a patchwork quilt.

It wasn't rare that Michael's found brothers enjoyed seeking comfort by his side, after a trauma or a nightmare. Their relief was the same as the Texan's, who particularly loved the illusion of being able to protect them.

Mike's long, bony fingers went all over that thick cloud of curls, enjoying the softness of the messy hair, as the citric perfume of Micky's shampoo reached him.

This was all they needed, some time and shelter to stay quietly cuddled.

The friend's long arms, as long and thin as his own, surrounded his body in a warm, soothing embrace, a comforting hug, silently lulling them in the patchwork quilt.

There was Micky, infinetely close. Micky, generously comforting them both. Nobody else could see or hear anything about the bond between their minds, hearts and souls.

Usually, Mike would have liked to appreciate the well-kept secret of their , the silence sounded louder, stronger, invading the time-space normally filled by his partner's eternal torrent of sounds.

Micky was absolutely unable to stay quiet. Even while sleeping, he'd still move around and chatter like the hyperactive kid he was, living to some of his mad dreams, running or fighting off gangsters, aliens or any weird monsters from some trash movie.

Or, if he'd be awake, he'd make up some crazy story to tell it to the Texan. Even if the friends had passed the whole day together, the funny young man could find some novelty, in any detail of their day, to recall and entertain both himself and the Southern.

And if it was one miraculous night of silence, it'd be because some nightmare would drop the clumsy drummer on his stoic friend's bed, where he could find some safety, warmth and comfort. He'd purr like a satisfacted kitten, while those enormous hands would make long, careful trails on his curls. Bony, thin, but very strong hands, long, mistreated fingers. Calluses and scars, from the hard work in the countryside, from the life in the streets, and from the metal strings of the guitar.

Hands that could be perfectly trustworthy and kind with Micky, that brought food, care and protection to the family, that created transcendental music and poetic words, for him and for the found brothers.

Micky loved those hands, he loved Mike. He just wanted to purr to those gentle carresses, wanted to soothe the found brother, assure him that he didn't have even the littlest blame about the incident that made the drummer's voice disappear. He wanted to sing softly on the friend's ear, like he did when the anxious Westerner suffered from insomnia. The Californian just loved to see the way how his partner's face would soften and relax, when he'd finally was able to fall asleep.

Micky was perfectly aware that the older boy carried the burden of the responsibility of the consequences of any happening, good or bad, that fell over their were not necessary to know how he felt.

He lifted bright eyes to Michael, and squeezed the hug around him, after seeing the battle between guilt and exhaustion in his soulmate's chocolate-coulored eyes.

Micky didn't know what he missed the most, Mike's usual calm expression of badly faked reprovation, or his own voice, filling the night until both friends could fall asleep.

The young singer just conformed himself. The silence gave him plenty of time to talk with Mr. Schneider, and medidate on their situation. The power of the monkey's paw wasn't cursed, after all. It was just a far-out spell, that ended facing a silly buyer who didn't know what to ask from a power with miraculous potential.

The true and only curse would be to separate the warm family that supported and accepted him. Together, so, vitorious, the struggling musicians left a hellish day behind.

While the young singer didn't have strenght to think about the next day, he'd keep on seeking comfort in Mike. And when when they'd be awake, maybe they could think of a way to break the spell.

Micky embraced the friend closer, an massaged his very thin and tired shoulders. He could feel his own slumber overtaking him, feeling his body as smooth as Mike's disappearing knots of tension.

Indeed, the closeness and the warmth were all they needed to rest their bodies and souls.


End file.
